Like a Thunderstorm
by brainlikeacid
Summary: Teenage Sherlock has cancer and meets John at group. Friendship, feels and first love. Work in progress so please let me know what you think, it still needs some work. Ta :)


Aloha :) Quick thingy- There was a little snippet of this on here before but I removed it to do a little improving. It's still a work in progress so throw all criticism or comments my way and I'll fix it up in a jiffy. Thankenyous and please enjoy :)

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Like a Thunderstorm - Chapter 1:

Sherlock Holmes was alone. Not in the literal sense of the word, of course- no one is truly alone. There are approximately seven billion other people walking the same orbiting ball of rock and gas as him at this exact moment in time. Seven billion other minds thinking, heart's pumping, lungs sucking in oxygen. None of which, though, truly registered to him. They drift by, paying little attention to anything other than their own monotonous lives and whatever singular thoughts or activities were pulling them through, one day at a time. Never thinking ahead, never taking a moment to reflect or appreciate. Obnoxious, oblivious, taking it for granted. Disgusting.

No, Sherlock Holmes was alone in the sense that he was not oblivious. He couldn't be anymore, no matter how hard he tried or how hard he wished to be as ignorant as the rest. With every breath he took, he was hit with the cold hard reality that it was not permanent. The simple task of breathing in was not a guarantee, that one day his lungs, his heart, the rest of his sickeningly fragile organs would stop. Just like that. Betrayed by his own transport. What a way to go.

He pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window in the hospital waiting room, eyes drifting over the people below. From up here, they looked like ants. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a magnifying glass.

People began to show up, shuffling lazily past him and through the solid wooden door to his left. It was almost time.

Entering that poky little room once a week was like a small death in itself. Having to sit on a hard plastic chair in a room that smelled of stale biscuits and despair and describe how he'd been _feeling_, how he was _coping_. Sherlock snorted to himself.

That wasn't even the worst part. The majority of the time, he'd manage to sit there in silence, the group leader assuming that he was either too shy or too upset to speak, and that maybe he'd open up in his own time. The worst part was dealing with the rest of their pity party. The crying, the moaning, the _hugging_. Sherlock was a lot of things, but a hugger was most definitely not one of them. It wasn't as if he'd come here by choice, he definitely would not choose to put himself through something like this of his own free will.

It was his mothers doing. At first he'd tried to fight her on it, claiming it to be a complete waste of time and arguing the fact that he had far greater things to do with what little time he had left, but eventually he gave up. The whispered conversations he'd overheard her having with his father had been the thing to change his mind. She was devastated when they'd received the news of his condition. Not just at the thought of losing a child, but at the fact that her son would have to suffer through the whole ordeal alone. He didn't have any friends, never mind someone with whom he could openly discuss whatever feelings he may be having about his looming mortality. So for his mother's sake, he'd agreed.

With a sigh, he pushed himself away from his watching point and joined the rest of the cancer riddled youth in conference room 221. It wasn't really a conference room, just a large enough space to fill with a few plastic chairs, a table or two and a few notice boards with motivational posters and health tips printed on sheets of A4.

"_Decent turn out this week_," he thought sarcastically. Twelve familiar faces were dotted around the room. Twelve familiar people doomed to an early grave.  
It did make him uneasy, the knowledge that these teenagers would more than likely expire before they reached adulthood. He had grown used to seeing them, and the thought that one day he could turn up and be met by only eleven pairs of eyes glancing in his direction was an unnerving thought.

He took up his usual chair in between a small, impossibly thin looking boy called Joseph and the refreshments table. Orange juice and cookies, just like every other week. Joseph mumbled his hello and Sherlock nodded in response, pulling his coat a little tighter around his own thin frame.

He'd never been a particularly muscular or even healthy-weighted boy. Even as an infant he'd lacked the happy little rolls and chunky appendages that small children generally acquire, though the fact that he had recently undergone a growth spurt before being slowly ravaged by cancer didn't help.  
It was a shame that this was how he'd be remembered. Forever the 17 year old boy with protruding cheekbones and fingers that looked more like twigs painted white. Soon enough though, it wouldn't matter. After he was gone and the dust began to settle, whatever memory of him was left behind would blur and warp and eventually disappear completely.

Time was funny like that. As huge as something seemed at that moment, it wasn't in the next. Thunderstorms don't last forever, and when the lightning stops and the clouds dissipate, the only sign of its existence is the puddles left by the rain. Only a tiny fraction of the event, a small indication that it existed at all; not even close to the spectacular display of lights and sounds and taste of electricity in the air. And then, time would take those puddles, too.

-

"Welcome back, guys." The group leader's voice was quiet, as always. He was clearly reaching for soothing and calm, but was falling a little too close to boredom for Sherlock's tastes. He was a depressing man with a tendency to repeat himself, meaning that whenever he spoke, Sherlock didn't listen. Every week, he wore a peeling sticker on his chest; the word "Ian" scratched quickly on its face.

Sherlock wore his name badge grudgingly. It was a ridiculous request. By now, everyone knew his name, and those that didn't probably didn't want to know.

These meetings always play out in the exact same way. Ian greets everyone, shares his story and then invites the rest of the group to discuss their thoughts. Sherlock can't help but roll his eyes. You'd think that they'd at least try to make the whole uncomfortable affair a little more upbeat. It was a room full of teenagers, for Christ's sake, and they weren't dead yet!

He was beginning to zone out again, as he often did when his ears were filled with the miserable drawl of Ian and the usual "I was like you too but now I'm not so don't give up" speech, when the door cracked open a fraction, just enough for a head of sandy blonde hair to poke through.

"Am I too late?" The boy almost whispered. Sherlock assumed he was embarrassed at interrupting whatever meaningful moment he imagined was happening, but when the counsellor shook his head and invited the boy in, he could tell this wasn't the case.

The boy pushed the door open fully, strolling casually over the threshold before pushing it closed with his foot. He was around 16 years of age, slightly tanned skin, stocky build. He looked healthy, fresh- not at all like he belonged in a support group for sick kids.  
His eyes drifted over the room quickly before settling on the space between Sherlock and the refreshments table. It was either there or next to Ian, the only places in the "trust circle" with enough space left to fit a chair. No one had ever felt the need to fill this gap before; it wasn't exactly a prime location. Sherlock wasn't particularly welcoming, or particularly interested in what the others had to say. It wasn't that he disliked any of them; he just wasn't interested in baring his soul or being present when others did.

Sherlock nudged his chair a little closer to Joseph to make room for the new boy. Up close, he could see little crinkles at the corners of ocean coloured eyes. Premature worry lines; something he was more than familiar with. Still, confidence seemed to seep from the boy in waves. It was a novelty, really, seeing as the room's other inhabitants were straight faced with blank stares.

"I'd say that it's nice to welcome a new face among us, but I'm sure we can all agree that it's not." The corners of Ian's mouth tugged down into an uncomfortable frown. The rest of the group mumbled in agreement.

"I can only apologise." The boy said with playful glint in his eyes. Interesting.

"Would you like to introduce yourself to the group?" Ian asked, either ignoring the sarcasm or wholly unaware of it. Sherlock decided on the latter.

"Err, okay. My name is John Watson, I'm 16 years old and I'm an alcoholic." John feigned stumbling over his words and started again, "No, sorry, wrong group." This caused a few giggles, a rarity for this group. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Yes...well..." The leader interrupted, humour obviously not on today's to-do list. John sat back in his chair in silence, one denim washed leg folded loosely over the other. The rest of the session went by in the same tedious fashion as always. Occasionally, he'd let out an exaggerated sigh. Sherlock couldn't help but steal glances at him, noting the way he jiggled his leg minutely or picked at the nails on his left hand, possibly a subconscious tic, possibly out of impatience or boredom. It was hard to tell from this angle.

Eventually, the hour was up. Ian ended the meeting in his usual fashion, quoting whatever ancient philosopher or even TV show character had taken his fancy this week and telling us to 'stay strong'.

Sherlock pushed himself through the building as quickly as his legs would allow. He always left the place in desperate need of a cigarette, today being no exception. When he reached the entrance, he placed the tip in between his lips and dug around in his pocket.

"Those things will kill you, y'know," John wandered past him, glancing over his shoulder at the cigarette sticking out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Thanks for the heads up." Sherlock replied, before realising the words had even formed in his brain. John stopped and turned to face him, holding out a hand in offering.

"John Watson," he introduced himself again.

"I know," Sherlock said; ignoring John's outstretched hand and bringing the lighter up to his face. "Sherlock Holmes," he added.

John looked him over. It was odd being on the receiving end of an inquisitive stare; Sherlock was usually the one putting others under a microscope.

"So what's your deal?" He asked eventually, clearly unaware of how ignorant he sounded.

"My _deal_?"

"Yeah, like why you're here." John clarified.

"Surely that would be evident, even to a person as oblivious as you." Sherlock bit out the words. He didn't have enough time left to spend masking his words with politeness for the benefit of others.  
John considered this for a moment, eyes twinkling in amusement.

"We should be friends," John stated plainly.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock coughed through the smoke.

"I said '_we should be friends'_." He said again, in the same matter-of-fact tone.

"Why on earth would I want to do that? Spending an hour a week with that depressing lot upstairs is already taking its toll on my sanity, so why would I purposefully choose to befriend one of them? Any more talk of illness and feelings and I might curl up and die right now of boredom." Sherlock ranted. They stood together in silence for a minute before John started again.

"Okay. Let's not do that, then- the whole "I have cancer you have cancer let's feel sorry for ourselves and fight cancer together" thing." Sherlock eyed the boy suspiciously.

"Look," he sighed, exasperated, "I'm not looking for an agony aunt. Seriously, I have an entire family of them at home. Having someone to not talk about cancer with would actually be kinda nice." John's sincerity was a shock to Sherlock. It wasn't something he was accustomed to, especially with a brother as manipulating as Mycroft and parents as selectively absent as his. None of them truly ever said what they meant, but apparently John Watson was nothing but honest.

"Okay..." Sherlock said. This would probably make his mother happy, and really, what harm could it do?

"Alright, then," John smiled. "I guess I'll see you next week, Sherlock Holmes." And with that, he turned and left, leaving Sherlock staring after him with the stub of a cigarette hanging from slightly parted lips.


End file.
